Ghosts and Hands

14.02.18

Your ghost. My ghost.
That is what I do.
I haunt us. I chase us.
Ghosts from the past.
I meet us again with my eyes open and with my eyes closed.
In reality and in dreams.
I meet all the moments that’s come and gone.

I didn’t know that the pieces of my broken heart would build your ghost.
My intention was to build myself from the love you didn’t want anymore.
I find your ghost everywhere.
Or. Maybe.
Maybe your ghost finds me.
I’m not sure which one is the answer.
I see my ghost too.
It makes me feel like I’m in an on-going and never-ending movie or like I have an out-of-body experience.

There we are again. Our ghosts.
By the kitchen table. Your ghost appear before me, on the other side of the table, eating home made bread with home made yam.
I take a walk. There we are, in front of me, walking hand in hand the same pathway.
I do yoga. Your ghost is moving from one room to the other, smiling at me when I look up to drink some water.
I sit in the sofa, where we used to sit. Your ghost whispers “come closer”.
I walk into the bathroom. And there your ghost are standing in front of the mirror. I close my eyes and I pretend to hold around you. I can somehow feel the warmth. The love. The magic. Like you were a candle.
I close my eyes, hoping that the ghosts will be real. Or. Go away. No. Stay. Stay a little bit longer.

18.02.18.

I’m beginning to forget you.
You’re not popping up in my mind like you used to do.
Your ghost is fading.
Your smell. I don’t remember it.
Your eyes. They are just eyes.
Your voice. It’s just an echo.
Your presence. I don’t need it.

But there is one thing I won’t forget.
Your hands. And the language they spoke with mine.
Maybe. Maybe it’s because the most important conversations are made with our fingers.
Those fingers that nervously grazed mine on the first day of love.
Those fingers that tightened with fear when you asked to see me again.
Those fingers that stretched out in ease when I said yes.
Those fingers that grasped mine while we were beneath the sheets.
Both of us pretended we weren’t weak in the knees.
Those fingers that pulsed with bitter cries when we got angry.
Those fingers that trembled with forgiveness when we apologised.
Those fingers, they said more than words could describe.
Please don’t let me forget your hands and the language they spoke.